Oasis
by glassbones
Summary: Its all whirlwind and misunderstanding when they meet. Much like the rest of their relationship. AU Rated M for sexual content and mild drug use. (Multi-Chapter)


**A/N:** I know my followers are probably insanely pissed at me for not updating my Zevie story in God-know-how-long, but I've been hoarding this Vavan story for a while & while I fight through my writers block on 'Come When I Call', I'll just post this. I hope you enjoy it & please review.

**Warning**: Contains drug use & sexual content.

_PS:_ a 'blunt' is a rolled, marijuana cigarette (just in case any of you didn't know).

... ... ...

"C'mon, Vicky." he says, intentionally provoking me with my old nickname.

"You know I hate it when you call me that. It's Victoria, you asshole." I retorted, ensuring he understood the message. Flicking my blunt and shooting it two feet away from me. I sighed as I looked around the dismal alley that acted as a neighbor to David's place of occupation, 'Adonis: Club for Gay Men'.

David worked at a gay bar in downtown Manhattan, one of his more outstanding achievements as a gay man trying to stick it to his insanely pious, Christian parents.

"I get off in half an hour. We can go to Avalon together." David says, attempting to persuade me into waiting for him so we could go out together on our 'Paint The Town Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, And Blue Night.'. We exclude violet because it takes away from the flawless emerald and golden wheat hues in David's eyes when he wears it. We planned to leave at ten, however, he was tempted by his boss into taking one of his coworkers shift . . . he was probably seduced considering he had what he called a 'Muscle Crush' on him - which his boss was aware of and he used it against David in situations much like this. Regardless, he liked him and continued to have his muscle crush where he defined this desire as an undeniable craving to pour sweet honey over the sculpted contours of a mans biceps and suck the nectar off of each curve.

"Fuck Avalon. Its always dead on Thursdays." I watched my blunt simmer in a puddle and drown any remaining flickers.

"Fine, we can go to 407. Anything? Please?"

I rolled my eyes. What the hell else did I have going on? "I'll wait for you, but not in this fucking place- emphasis on the fucking."

David gleamed with excitement, "Yes, yes, yes!" Jumping into my arms in his elated frenzy.

I grinned, wrapping my arms around him, "Save it for your shift, babe"

He laughed, releasing our embrace and rotating the steel handle and disappearing into the confusion of flashing strobe lights and astonishingly flexible men.

... ... ...

This wasn't the first time David had left me with a couple of hours to kill while he was at work shaking his ass for tips. About a block away from David's job was this shitty little diner that had decent coffee and the most mouth-watering cheese fries you ever had the pleasure of eating. I was in desperate need of a hot chocolate and decided to drop in and grap one. I took a seat at one of the couter seats and ordered my drink. When it was ready I held my mug between my laced fingers and inhaled deeply above the dissolving steam, salivating at the decadent aroma. I took a small sip, testing the heat before taking a more appropriate swallow, "You know, Louise," Looking around the diner while rubbing my arms up and down to create some form of self-warmth, "I don't think it would kill you to turn the heat up past 20 degrees."

Louise continued to wipe down a glass with a rag, keeping her utmost attention on buffing and polishing any stain that might be as unlucky as the one to come across her focused scrubbing, "Well, maybe if you decided to wear the basic necessities in this weather . . . like pants that come below your ass."

"Maybe I like the breeze." Smirking, I rotated in my chair and glanced at the few people in the worn booths.

Louise scoffed, "One day, your ovaries are going to fall out and I'm not going to be there to catch them."

"Oh fuck off, Louise. I'm actually wearing an appropriate outfit tonight." Not true. I don't usually dress like a whore but David insisted he have the responsibility of deciding what I wear on our nights out. Tonight, I was wearing a sheer, plunging V neck who's long sleeves I'd pulled up to my elbows. David contrasted the lively white by tucking it into a vibrant scarlet skirt who's hem was a bit shy of the middle of my thigh. He had wrapped my waist in an oversized black leather belt with a sterling silver buckle and last but not least, placed on my feet were black peep-toe wegdes.

But no matter what slut outfit he forced me into I had to have one article of clothing that was a necessity: My father's leather bomber jacket. It was the only thing I had when I moved to New York. Oh, but that's a story for another time.

Louise coughed, letting the argument drop. She could've easily won with a witty retort but she would let me have one every now and then. I sighed, letting my eyes roll over the few people scattered among the diner. And by few, I mean a total of four, including me.

A man, in a deep navy, pinstripe suit reprimanding someone furiously on the opposite line of his phone. He was probably some manager or vice president. No one who was a CEO would spend their time in a three star diner. He also seemed to be drowning in his work. Papers that needed signing and hundreds of plain black text lined along the white sheets that were all diverged and separated into predetermined piles, each organized by importance and type. His voice was reaching higher decibels every time he took a pause to let the other person speak. Which really reflected how much he was dissatisfied by the Mr. X on the other line. Honestly, never quite pleased by anything he will or will not get right, and even if he did do something worth approval he would find some twisted way of taking the credit and making it his. He really only had one objective: His own.

Your classic business asshole.

Next up, the lovely grandma. This woman straight off the bat seems harmless. Eating in small bites and having a difficult time doing so seeing as how her dentures are new. Lets take a closer look at what she's eating, hm? Grilled salmon with a lemon wedge and a watercress salad on the side (Yes, the salad is as pretentious as it sounds). Now, this seems like an average dinner, right? Wrong. This meal isn't on the menu . . . but what does this tell us? That she ordered off the menu and only people who aren't pleased by what's on it and take it upon themselves to get a waitress to create some new meal is a total bitch. Still not convinced? Take a look at her attire. A rosy pink pant suit with monochrome toe capped court heels. Why would you wear such an elegant outfit to a crap diner like this? To show the world that she's better then it. She goes to these dingy places to enforce the fact that she is better then other people. Why? What else has she got to do? So, why not ? Let me see how far I can push this person before they break entirely . . . is her philosophy.

A self-righteous, egotistical old hag.

Finally, we come to the young adult male reading a coverless book. He dons an A-line long sleeved tee and a smoky charcoal plaid shirt. His black knit beanie concealing his onyx locks draped just above his shoulders . . . almost like a vail.

Wait- what?

I take a few moments to observe him. That's all it should take, right? No noticeable habits or perks. He's just there. Jesus, he's hard to pin down into a type. I can't figure him out. What the fuck? This isn't hard. I've been doing it since I was twelve, I know I can figure him out.

A few more observations. A few more minutes. I can do this.

"Fuck." I mumble under my breath unable to keep my agitation in my head.

"Avan."

I turned toward Louise and cocked an eyebrow carefully, "What?"

"The one in the corner booth. You've been staring at him for the past fifteen minutes. His name is Avan." She repeated, placing down her last glass and set her forearms on the counter to face me.

I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and scoffed, "I-I . . . was not staring. I don't stare. I was observing." Keeping my chin up and taking a few deep breaths, dumbfounded by the accusation.

Louise grimaced, "You want to sit there feeding me bullshit or you want to know more?"

"Tell me everything."

... ... ...

"Every day?" I asked.

Louise nodded, confirming with a silent answer, "He just sits there and reads that book, orders the same chili cheese fries, and comes in around ten or eleven."

I knitted my brows to form protruding creases between them, "Why don't I ever see him?" Louise shrugged, "He doesn't usually come in on Thursdays." She stepped away from the counter and walked into the back room to check on an order.

Shutting my eyes, I huffed a quick breath. Oh God.

Just do it.

One look.

Don't be a bitch about it.

It'll be two seconds.

Not even.

Debating with myself; my mind and my heart being both even, yet interesting adversaries. I lifted my eyelids, which were unusually heavy, to reveal the linoleum counter. I gradually rolled my eyes over to the corner booth.

He was looking at me.

I snapped my vision back to the familiarity of the countertop. I felt like my stomach was free-falling but the rest of my vital organs were apparently organizing some kind of gymnastics tournament. Those eyes, oh God, his eyes.

Their radiance flickered despite the low-budget lighting in this dim restaurant. The flecks of a sweet carmel in his iris' were breathtaking and joined flawlessly with his olive skin tone.

I wanted a closer look.

Before I realized what my feet were doing, my mind slowly fathomed the fact that they were taking strides toward him and the private crevice he'd smuggled away to.

I slid, the red leather hide acting as an unconventional slick to help me slip in to the booth. Lacing my fingers, I clasped the conjoined limb onto the table with a gently thud and mustered up every ounce of composure I could to restrain my anxiousness.

How could I explain my random actions?I would have to think on my feet because those selfish bastards are the ones that brought me here.

Something that would explain my rash behavior but not in a way that made me seem too erratic or bizarre.

Lightbulb. I would pretend to be a clueless, dumb drunk bitch.

"Hi." I finally said, a slight slur effortlessly making its way past my tongue.

"Hi." He said indifferently, as if random strangers approached him all the time. I was frustrated. I'd expected a little more of a reaction. The few people enjoying their meals had made a bigger acknowledgment of our encounter.

"Whatcha readin'? Running a hand through my hair, hoping the movement would at least get him to make eye contact.

"A very hungry caterpillar. It's pretty heartwarming actually."

I smirked. He was witty. If I weren't so dedicated to the role I might have laughed. It was my-kind-of-humor and my-kind-of-humor wasn't something that I'd come into contact with a lot. But portraying a drunk bitch was something I'd have to take seriously. So, while I couldn't laugh genuinely, I could laugh obnoxiously and over exaggerate the degree of hilarity that I took his joke.

Belting out a irritating giggle, I pushed his arm playfully, "You're funny. I think my friends would like you."

"I can only hope." Flipping a page, he continued his standoffish attitude, refusing to look at me.

I contained a scoff and decided to kick it up a notch, "Have you ever had a threesome?"

Avan chuckled wryly, finally marking his page with a quick fold in the corner and placed it down in dead center of the table. He lifted his eyes to look at me. It wasn't what I'd anticipated. I'd expected his dark hazel eyes to give my He wasn't just looking at me, he was observing me.

I could see him fighting a smile, itching to reveal a hidden satisfaction, "Do you usually do this?"

I blinked, acting completely puzzled, "Whaddya mean? Threesomes? I mean, they take some getting used to and you can't be se-"

He flew a hand up, curtailing my sentence with the flick of his wrist, "No," he said stiffly. "I mean, do you come up to people in the middle of the night and pretend to want to fuck them?" He paused, suddenly remembering something, "Oh, excuse me, group fuck."

I forced my mouth to hold a thin line, "I don-"

He interjected quickly, "Your hands have remained in the same position since you took a seat and have twitched every time I talk. Your upper shoulders: tense, and unusually upright since you'd walked over here and been hunched over on your stool by the counter over there. You're not comfortable around me. I don't know why, and frankly, I don't care why, but I was in the middle of when the caterpillar is about to come out of the cocoon so if you don't mind I'm going to make this a lot easier on you and leave." He grabbed his book and stuck a hand into his pocket emerging with a ten dollar bill and slapped it on the table.

He paused before walking out and turned to face me, "And by the way, you should practice on your stupid, gullible drunk girl act . . . it's a little generic and unbelievably obvious."

I was stunned. He'd immediately figured me out. Revealing my intentions and reading my body language in one look. His mannerisms reflected nothing to the usual profile I'd faced and the fact that his actions were so . . . different wasn't any assistance in trying to break down what kind of person he was.

They're always just the same. People, of course. Every single one of the douche bags on this planet are related in some way, whether it be in personality or the way they handle a difficult situation. They're always just the same. But if there was anything I had deduced by our short exchange it was this: He wasn't your typical asshole.


End file.
